Elementary, My Dear Watson
by Peonywinx
Summary: Sherlock's done it again. He's pulled some outrageous stunt. John's not happy with him and demands to know why. Sherlock won't tell him. And John is left having to use his own deduction skills to find out what Sherlock's hidden reason is.
1. A Heated Interrogation

_**A/N: Yup, I'm breaking into a new fandom...again. Hello, readers both new and old, and welcome to this short story of BBC's frankly brilliant production, **Sherlock**. The genius of Steven Moffat, aside from expertly running the show (Doctor Who) that my last oneshot was based in, has also recently got me completely hooked on one Sherlock Holmes. Why, Moffat, why do you have to be such a creative genius?**  
_

**Disclaimer: As I believe I've stated above, BBC (and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle) owns Sherlock.**

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1. A Heated Interrogation

"Well?"

Sherlock raised one delicate eyebrow. "Well, what?"

John Watson's expression did not change as he crossed his arms. "Well, this is the part where you tell me what the hell you were thinking."

"You'll have to be more specific, John. I'm always thinking about something. Except when I'm bored; then I don't have anything to think about."

"You know bloody well what I'm talking about, Sherlock. Don't pretend, please."

Sherlock met his gaze coolly. "I'm afraid I really don't know what you're talking about, John."

John grit his teeth, knowing that if he wanted to get answers, he was going to have to press to the narrowest detail. God, the man was infuriating!

"Fine, then," he conceded. "I am referring to the fact that you _shot _a man not three hours ago."

"Oh, is _that _it?" Sherlock sounded almost bored, as if he had been expecting something more interesting. "It was the logical thing to do."

"Logical…" John inhaled deeply, willing himself not to strangle the world's only consulting detective with his own ridiculously long scarf (something that had happened on more than one occasion – apparently others had had the same idea; that scarf was really just begging to be pulled tight around the detective's neck). "And how, exactly, was it the logical thing to do?"

"He had a gun," Sherlock explained patiently, as if talking to an ordinary policeman – which was the same as talking to a five-year-old, for Sherlock – unless said policeman happened to be Lestrade, in which case the age would be closer to twelve. "He was pointing it at you. He had threatened to kill you and he was seconds away from pulling the trigger."

"Sherlock, _I _had a gun. Which I am perfectly capable of using, as I've proved."

"Yes," Sherlock said wryly, "but you were instead pointing it at the other person in the room, instead of the man who was going to kill you." He shifted his left leg none-too-gently, without the slightest hint of a wince, and John briefly wondered if he was concealing his pain extremely well, or if he really wasn't human enough to feel it.

"Lawson would've killed you if I hadn't been watching him," John defended.

"Perfectly correct assumption, but you're forgetting that with your gun trained on Lawson you would not have had time to change direction and shoot Warrick before he shot you. Also, the firmness of your stance and the narrowed set of your eyes indicated that you would not have changed your target even if you knew that Warrick intended to kill you – which you undoubtedly did, because you are neither blind nor deaf and Warrick was being quite vocal."

"Yes, I know," John said curtly. He didn't need Sherlock to remind him – he could still see the scenario in his head. A dim warehouse, four people, three guns, and a precarious stalemate. Sherlock, leaning heavily against the wall, limping and bleeding profusely from the jagged laceration on his left leg. The impossibly large Sinclair Lawson, poison dagger in hand, half a metre away from the injured detective – who would not have been able to move quickly enough to avoid getting nicked. The smugly supreme Aaron Warrick, gun trained on John's head even as John himself was using his own gun to keep a watchful eye on Lawson.

"Ah." Sherlock sounded mildly – very mildly – pleased. "Hence you understand my subsequent reaction. It was merely a defensive action."

"It was unnecessary!"

"Honestly, I don't understand why you're getting so worked up. You're no stranger to violence – you've shot people before – and killed them, I might add."

"Only when strictly necessary," John qualified. "Sherlock, the police were right outside, listening to every word. They were already coming in. Warrick would've been shot down by a sniper before he could pull the trigger."

"The police are imbeciles. Excuse me for not wanting to risk depending on them."

John sighed in frustration. "You didn't even know that Warrick would have shot."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Have you not been listening at all, John?"

"Oh, I've been listening. I was listening when you profiled Warrick and proclaimed him to be a man of all talk and no action. I was listening when you deduced that he was a crap shot because of the inexperienced way he held his gun. I was listening when you very calmly pointed out to Warrick in that damned warehouse that the police – not to mention yourself – would descend like a pack of wolves on him if he dared to shoot me, and that he was basically guaranteeing a life sentence for both himself and Lawson, perhaps even the death penalty for his numerous crimes."

"Very good," Sherlock congratulated. "I've never faulted your attention, John – nor your observation. It's merely your deduction skills that require work."

"Indeed. So explain to me why, knowing all the above, I am unable to deduce why you would be so certain that Warrick was going to shoot that you decided to take pre-emptive action?"

"Everything in his manner and behaviour indicated that he would. Crap shot or not, the logical choice was not to take that risk and hit him first."

John threw up his hands in frustration. "You're impossible," he growled as he stomped towards the kitchen. Sherlock instantly noticed that he was limping.

"Why are you limping?" he asked at once.

"Psychosomatic, remember?" John retorted, a decidedly sarcastic edge to his voice. "It comes back when I forget that I don't need to limp, and when narcissistic, unreasonable, downright infuriating sociopaths refuse to give me a straight answer."

Sherlock sighed long-sufferingly. "Why are you asking so many things, John? These are idiotic questions, and you are not an idiot."

"Of course – most people wouldn't ask why their flatmate would shoot a man when there was absolutely no necessity to do so," John said acidly.

"No, I mean I fail to understand why you are asking at all."

"Good God, Sherlock!" John exclaimed.

"You are not an idiot, John," Sherlock repeated bluntly. "And I fail to see why you would ask when you are perfectly capable of deducing the answer yourself."

That made the doctor pause, as he turned over Sherlock's words in his head. "I believe we've established that my deduction skills need work," he said finally.

"Then this is an excellent opportunity for you to work on them."

"Sherlock," John cried exasperatedly, "I am not you, all right? In fact, I don't know why you even bother to ask for my opinions when you clearly always find them lacking…"

"That is not true."

"I…what?" John glanced at Sherlock, unsure if he had heard that correctly.

Sherlock did not deign to repeat himself. Instead he said, "You're an intelligent man, John, and on occasion I have found your observations to be quite…"

"Quite?"

"Clever."

There was a pause, wherein they both stared at each other – John in confusion, Sherlock in anticipation.

John finally realised that Sherlock Holmes had just complimented him. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Sherlock responded blandly.

"But, that aside…"

"I am not going to tell you why I did what I did, John. All I'll say is that I had a reason, as I always do, and that reason may be good or bad – but I had a reason, and you'll find out what it was if you put your mind to it."

"Perhaps," John agreed. "But what if I can't figure it out?"

Sherlock busied himself in a letter and did not reply for a long while. John waited patiently until the great detective decided his question warranted an answer.

"You will," Sherlock said finally. "Eventually."

"Eventually, yes. But it will take me a while. We could save all that time if you just told me."

Sherlock's casual smirk was positively devious. "We could," he agreed. "But what would be the fun in that?"

John had to resist, once again, the urge to strangle the man.

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_**A/N: I suppose I could have squeezed everything into a oneshot, but the pace of this story sort of demanded some separation of chapters. Hence, there will be three chapters in total, and the second one will be updated tomorrow.**_

_**So, what do you think? ;)**_


	2. A Study in Motives

_**A/N: Thanks to **LadyDunla, DizzyDrea,** and **dana-san** for reviewing the debut chapter of my first Sherlock fic. Apparently I'm handling the characters well - always a plus =)**_

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, nor the one line I borrowed from Star Trek - which, really, came from Holmes in the first place, so...  
**

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2. A Study in Motives

By the end of the week John had decided multiple times that Sherlock Holmes was the most maddening individual he had ever had the misfortune to meet. Despite much questioning, coaxing, bargaining, and even demanding for Sherlock to tell him _why_, the detective had adamantly refused to say a single word more on the matter.

"Talk to me when you've figured it out, John," he'd say.

John had to admire his steel resolve. He knew how utterly irritating a person who was constantly and persistently badgering for an answer could be – Harry used to do that to him all the time until she drove him sufficiently crazy that he would give in just for the sake of shutting her up and having her not bother him anymore – so for Sherlock to resist any sort of temptation to just tell him and end the torture for both of them was, frankly, commendable.

That didn't make it any less vexing, though.

On the other hand, there was the distinct possibility that Sherlock was staving off the boredom of currently having no cases to work by taking pleasure in John's frustration as a result of driving the good doctor to his limit.

It wasn't as if he hadn't tried. Oh, no – John Watson had tried his damnedest to work out what reason Sherlock Holmes could possibly have for shooting Aaron Warwick.

First, he had run through every single detail of that situation in his head, looking for any possible reason, however improbable, that might have made Sherlock think pulling the trigger was necessary. After two or three exhaustive combings, he'd come up blank. Sherlock's initial assessment of Warrick had had the latter pinned as a somewhat indecisive, wishy-washy sort of person who could put on bravado like a glove and who blustered a lot but didn't really do much – and Sherlock's initial assessments tended to be uncannily accurate (if he could tell a pilot by his left thumb, as he claimed on his website, they were most certainly accurate). Moreover, Sherlock himself was condescendingly disdainful when Lestrade opined that perhaps Warrick wasn't as crap a shot as the former had suggested.

"_Look_ at the way he holds his gun," he'd said. "It's a child's grip. The recoil would snap his wrist back even before the bullet left the barrel. There is no way he ever hits what he aims for."

Aside from which, Sherlock was fully aware that Lestrade and the police had surrounded the warehouse and were already moving in – he'd been the one to text Lestrade in the first place. And as dismissive as he was of the police's abilities, even the great detective had admitted, grudgingly, once, that the sniper unit was one of the best in London (although admittedly he had also added a qualifying clause that the unit was merely the least incompetent rather than the most competent). Therefore, Sherlock _knew _that the snipers would hit Warrick before Warrick got a chance to hit John – and that was if Warrick had actually intended to shoot at all, and was not just blustering his way through with threats and bravado. Therefore, it had not been necessary by any stretch for Sherlock to take the shot, and so necessity could not be his reason for doing so.

The second thing John considered was that perhaps Sherlock had wanted revenge – Warrick and Lawson had put them through a lot of grief for the week they'd had to work on that case, and Sherlock was none too happy about Warrick having misled him on two separate occasions during the week-long chase (once with a bribed taxi driver and once by injecting John with what he'd claimed was a deadly poison but was actually just a harmless sedative – by the time Sherlock had ascertained that his flatmate was in no danger Warrick was long gone). But although John had to admit Sherlock was the type of character whom he could see taking out his frustrations by unusual methods (such as shooting at their apartment walls), he could not imagine that the brilliant sleuth was a man who would take petty revenge simply for revenge's sake. Sherlock might seem reckless, irrational, and even unstable to other people, but John knew better – his flatmate was cool and calculating, and would never do anything he didn't consider logical. There was always a rational reason behind Sherlock Holmes' actions, even if it was rational to no one save the man himself.

A third option was the idea that Sherlock could have been playing some sort of chess move, a long-term strategy plan that no one but he could envisage. Perhaps he had reason to believe Warrick was connected to the mysterious Moriarty. But what would shooting the man gain? For the life of him John couldn't puzzle it out.

"For God's sake, Sherlock!" John exploded one night, four days after their initial discussion; Sherlock was watching crap telly and muttering insults at the ridiculous happenings on whatever B-grade movie was showing. "Why the hell can't you just _tell _me?!"

Sherlock turned enigmatic grey eyes on his companion as he silenced the television with the remote. "You need to deduce this on your own, John," he said, uncharacteristically quiet.

"I _can't_," John exclaimed in frustration. "Damn it, Sherlock, my deduction just isn't up to your level, can't you understand that?"

"You're not asking the right questions, John. Again."

"Would the great and almighty detective deign to tell me what questions I'm supposed to ask?" Pointed sarcasm oozed from every syllable in his sentence.

"For one, why is finding out the reason for my action so important to you?"

"Because you never do anything without a reason."

A small, wry smile pulled the corners of Sherlock's mouth upwards. "Indeed I don't."

"Sherlock…"

"Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

John stared at him. "What?"

Sherlock sighed. "Think about it, John. Think very hard. And tell me when you get it." He turned the volume on the telly up again and returned his attention to the mediocre programme.

John was left wondering if he'd imagined the disappointment in the other man's eyes.

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Sherlock's words rang in John's head. _"Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." _

There _was _one other possibility he had thought of, but he'd dismissed it almost at once, on the grounds that it was highly improbable.

_However improbable…_

Could it be?

John could scarcely begin to fathom it. The man in question was, after all, Sherlock Holmes – a self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath. As a doctor, John knew the medical definition of a sociopath – i.e. someone who was chronically antisocial, lacking a sense of moral responsibility or social conscience. Sherlock certainly fit all those criteria – he lived by his own rules and let no one tell him what to do. Oddly enough, though, Mycroft seemed to think John was a good influence on his wayward brother.

Still, Sherlock was undoubtedly someone who didn't care about other people (he didn't even care about himself, sometimes) – and John could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen his flatmate display genuine emotion.

_Regardless, _the doctor in his head told him, _there was still emotion, so he's not incapable of feeling._

This led John to his current hypothesis concerning Sherlock's reason. He still thought it was extremely unlikely, but he had already eliminated everything else – and if Sherlock hadn't been trying to give him a hint with that statement of his John would go out and buy the man another absurdly long and potentially life-endangering scarf.

With a sigh, John set his book down and shuffled downstairs towards the hall. He was ready to confront Sherlock with his fourth and final conclusion: that Sherlock Holmes' decision to shoot Aaron Warrick was a purely emotional one, born out of a strong desire to protect John Watson.

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_**A/N: Gasp! Sherlock Holmes? Emotional decision? Heaven forbid! - unless it was about John Watson ;) Hm, well, actually, after that Season 2 finale, Sherlock and emotions might not be so detached after all...**_

_**The conclusion of this story arrives tomorrow. Until then, reviews make me happy :D**_


	3. An Improbable Truth

**_A/N: And here we are at the conclusion of this (admittedly very short) story. This chapter was the hardest to write, because if you don't nail that relationship between Sherlock and John just right, it breaks the whole fic. So I'm anxious about the ending, but I figure it's the best I can make it._**

**_Thanks to _**_dana-san, DizzyDrea,_**_ and _**_LadyDunla_**_ for reviewing on Chapter 2._**

**Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own Sherlock.  
**

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3. An Improbable Truth

Sherlock was sprawled out on the sofa, reading a book and casually ignoring the ringing of his mobile phone when Mrs. Hudson came up to check on the state of the kitchen.

"Sherlock, dear, aren't you going to get that?"

"What for?" Sherlock asked. "It's a number which isn't in my contacts, which is neither blocked nor unknown, and it doesn't start with any of the government digits – and as I am not currently on a case, it is not a serial killer or psychopath attempting to contact me. Therefore, it must only be someone who reads my website and wants me to solve some petty, simplistic, boring case for them – something I have no interest in doing – so rather than waste my breath trying to explain to them that I am not interested, I would rather simply not pick up my phone."

Mrs. Hudson sighed as she made her way to the kitchen, barely batting an eye at the mismatched pair of eyeballs sitting on a plate next to the microwave. When one was Sherlock Holmes' landlady, one learned to get accustomed to his eccentricities.

"I do wish you would stop bringing body parts into the house, Sherlock," she reproved. "It's extremely unhygienic." The genius sleuth did not answer, nor did Mrs. Hudson expect him to. She gingerly moved the plate of eyeballs to make space for the kettle. "Would you like some tea?"

"Yes, that would be appreciated." He turned a page of his book.

Someone cleared his throat; Sherlock looked up to see John standing next to the sofa. He quirked one eyebrow upwards, silently questioning the doctor.

"I…" John paused. "I think I've got it."

Still looking at him, Sherlock clapped his book shut and tossed it on the table with careless abandon in one fluid move.

Over in the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson had noticed John's entrance. "Oh, hello, John," she greeted. "I'm making tea. Would you like some?"

"Never mind the tea, Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock. "Would you mind giving us a moment alone?"

A knowing smile graced his landlady's face. "Oh, of course." She walked back out to the door. "I'll leave you two to it, then."

John barely spared a thought for her (wrong) assumption that he and Sherlock wished to do 'couple's things' together. He sat down in the armchair and looked at Sherlock seriously.

"Well?" Sherlock asked.

"First off, I tried thinking of everything else and I couldn't find out why you would shoot Warrick. So that left me with another option, which I realise is highly improbable and is probably utterly wrong – but I can't think of anything else and it's the only one that's left. So whether I'm right or wrong this is my last idea and if it's wrong you're going to have to just tell me…"

"John," Sherlock interrupted. "Your conclusion?"

John inhaled. "You shot Warrick because you cared for my safety."

Sherlock observed him carefully. The rising tone towards the end of John's question indicated that the doctor truly wasn't sure about his theory at all.

"You're very doubtful," he noted.

"As I said, it's improbable," John said again.

"But true, nonetheless."

"Yes." It took a few seconds for Sherlock's understated comment to sink in. "What?" he inquired in disbelief.

"Your deduction is right," Sherlock told him. "There was no necessity whatsoever to shoot Warrick, and I knew that – but in the heat of the moment all logic escaped my thoughts and I was left desiring only that you were safe. I took the shot because crap shot or not, police or no police, I wasn't willing to risk your life."

"But…" John fumbled for his words. "But you'd profiled him yourself. You _knew _he couldn't possibly hit me."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "I was, however, not willing to take the chance, slight though it was, that I could be wrong."

John gaped at him. This was Sherlock Holmes, the man who would have voluntarily taken a possibly lethal pill just to prove if he was right. He never missed a chance to showcase his intelligence. For him to say _this_ meant that John had arrived at the improbable truth. The thought had, of course, crossed John's mind before, but he'd never imagined it might be factual.

"You…you actually care."

Sherlock gave him a look and was silent.

"I thought you didn't care about anyone."

"Wrong," Sherlock refuted calmly. "I don't care about people. I care about persons."

John was confused. "What's the difference?"

"People are trivial and dull and not worth bothering about. Persons are those few – those extremely rare few – individuals who actually are worth my time and whom I do care about."

"Ah," said John. "So I'm a…person?"

"You are, John," Sherlock admitted.

"And you…care about me."

"Yes. I care because you're my only friend – and therefore by default that makes you my best friend – and I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have you. I'd be lost without my blogger." Here he actually smiled, and John found himself smiling in return.

"Well…thank you," said John. He hesitated. "For the record, you're a person too."

Sherlock inclined his head. "I know. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"I do have a question, however."

John's head shot up. "A question?"

"Why did you take so long to arrive at the right conclusion?"

John looked at him incredulously. "The better question would be why did you think I would figure it out sooner?"

"John, John, John." Sherlock shook his head. "It was the only possible explanation. It was…" He paused slightly, searching for the right word. "…elementary. Elementary, my dear Watson."

"To Sherlock Holmes, perhaps," John returned. "Not to John Watson."

"Hm, yes, perhaps not," Sherlock conceded.

"In all honesty, I didn't know I meant that much to you," John confessed.

"You do," Sherlock said at once. "Dear John, you do. I just don't say it in so many words."

"No," John agreed. "No, that's not really your style. Making me stew for a week in my attempt to guess, on the other hand…"

"Deduce," Sherlock corrected. "Not guess. And yes, that was the purpose of this exercise." He smirked as he returned his gaze to his friend and flatmate. "I trust it is elementary now?"

John shook his head in resignation, but Sherlock caught the smile on his face.

"Yes, Holmes. Elementary."

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_**A/N: Yep, that's the end. Hope you liked it. Thanks again to the three who reviewed, and thanks to those who subscribed and/or favorited (perhaps a review on this final chapter? ;)**_

_**Ciao, folks!**_


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